


your voice is a weapon (but you sing anyway)

by lostinthefire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sirens, Consent Issues Everywhere, Fae & Fairies, Flashbacks, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinthefire/pseuds/lostinthefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the boy with the bright eyes and the voice that pulls you in for more.  He's the boy who charms with a smile and lures you into dark corners for things you know you shouldn't be doing.</p><p>He sings clear and easy on Sunday morning and speaks low and dark on Saturday night.</p><p>And then he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all started with a breakdown (mine), music (Bastille), and The Muzzle.

He's the boy with the bright eyes and the voice that pulls you in for more. He's the boy who charms with a smile and lures you into dark corners for things you know you shouldn't be doing.

He sings clear and easy on Sunday morning and speaks low and dark on Saturday night.

He's got the world on his fingertips, crooning and making it fall in love with him.

And the world _did_ fall. Everyone and everything fell hard and fast and only his mother knew how to say no to him. She'd sing just as sweetly and bring him to his knees.

But she was never the kind of creature to stay, even for the thing she brought into the world. She is the fleeing sort and she takes to the ocean again soon enough.

So he's alone, a world at his feet and nothing to do but keep singing.

~

He can feel the eyes on him, an entire church watching his mouth and he didn't give a damn. He knew what he was there for, knew they just liked him because he could carry a tune.

("It's more than that," his mother would say. "It's in your blood."

He didn't give a fuck about what was in his blood, only knew that whatever it was left him always wanting, longing for something he could never name and hell if that was anything but troublesome.)

They put him up there, begged him to make those pretty sounds like he was a bird to be shown off at a party. He would sing their hymns, he'd wrap the words around his tongue and let them fly from his lips like he was meant to do this, like they were always inside him aching to get out.

But he was never that passionate, that longing for pretty songs.

He wants something else and that desire moved inside him when he sings. It wasn't joy, it wasn't the need to please, to perform.

It was something darker, dangerous and he had no idea what to call it.

~

Steve doesn't fall in love quite the same way as other people. Of course, he fell but it wasn't all over himself, he isn't trying to impress him, woo him or entice him.

He's just there, existing around him and Bucky found himself existing around Steve just as easily.

It was like they were stones in the other one's pocket, small and steady and there to be played with when the time was right, or thrown out as a weapon if the danger came.

When they find each other (an event that blurred in Bucky's mind) they stay. It was that simple. And because Bucky was always the boy who got his way, be it with a sweet smile, or a song for a few extra points in his favor, it stayed that way for a long, long time.

And that's the thing about his life, the thing that got under his collar, the thing that made him punch a wall, a person or dig his nails into his flesh so hard he bleeds.

It's always good, it's always what he wants.

And then it very, very sharply isn't.

~

The day he gets the letter calling him to action, he doesn't say anything to anyone for a good while.

He doesn't argue, doesn't try and cajole anyone into doing something else, even though he could. He doesn't even express any sort of annoyance or anger.

He just takes the news and goes.

He hits the streets, pace slow and steady for a long time. Then he starts to sing.

He walks down the street like he's in a picture show singing loud, singing at the top of his lungs.

And the world bent to him, just as it always had, just as, he assumes, it always will.

People watch, they back away, they throw him a few pieces of money they didn't have to waste. He ignores it though, keeping pace with the music he's bringing into the world until he's running hard, voice sill easily ringing out over the streets as he kept moving, kept putting ground between himself and everything he wanted to keep close.

He sings and the world listens. 

He sings and now he's going to be raising his voice in a war zone.

~

It's like they know he's different, know there's something wrong with him, something dangerous. 

And then he's singing hymns to bring them to their knees and anything they had thought, anything he had been able to keep hidden, proves to be more than just a paranoia.

They bind his jaw, drug him more than the others and he's so out of it, so unfocused and dizzy, that he can't imagine what it's like to sing, just speaking feels like a foreign concept to him.

Even when someone new comes, someone who needs him to open his mouth for whatever reason, he finds himself unable to really speak. Words come out garbled and slurred, his body feels like a dead weight and his jaw winds up hanging open, numbed and unable to be of any use.

This is what being captured is like: Being a piece of meat getting prepared for a feast.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s blood on his tongue, always blood, forever wrapping itself around his tastebuds and reminding him what he’s done.

He's bleeding and they’re bleeding and everything is so, so red.

He smiles, fierce and wolfish, springing forth like a wild animal on the last one. He tracked them down, each of them, those people who kept him. He found them and now he’s tearing them down.

There’s blood on his tongue and it tastes of freedom.

~

But there are the other days.

There are the days where he’s in pain, where his skin feels like it’s cracking, where he wants nothing more than to find a pool of water and drown himself in it, though he has no idea if it would work.

It’s not suicidal, not exactly, it’s a need for an end. For a story to close, for things to wrap up, however messily.

_(He tells himself he is infinite and that is terrifying and comforting all at once.)_

He will have all the time in the world to take back what was taken from him, to rip out the things that are owed to him and seek the blood of all those who stood by and left him to the wolves, but after that?

He has no idea.

Violence is carved into his bones at this point, the need to hurt, to tear apart to break down and make bleed is what he does best. However, he knows there’s going to be a day when he runs out of victims. He knows that while he may be infinite, his old captors are far from it..

Still, he sings to to anyone who will listen and watches car crashes, watches accidents, watches all sorts of things happen at his hand, his voice

He is infinite he is a terror and one day, when he has nothing else to sing to, he’ll treat himself to his own song.

And even though he knows it will end, even though he can taste it in the air, he keeps going, keeps breaking everything he can find.

He makes them bow, fall to their knees and cry for him. He takes guns, knives, his own hands to their flesh and makes them beg for more.

He sings to them, sings sweet songs of love and makes them fall for him. He makes them feel the pain of a lover’s betrayal, or a friend, or even family. He makes them go through pains beyond the physical and he feels more alive, more like someone who could be a person one day, in those moments.

He is born and bred for violence and the more he does this, without being wiped clean after, the more he realizes that he can accept that.

He’s a weapon, a gun to be fired, but he is fucking good at it.

~

He knows he’s being tracked, followed into the darkness of the night or in the burning light of day. He knows that the man, the one from the bridge and the carrier and his dreams the one who gave him a name, is trying to find him.

He refuses to call him anything beyond that, to give him a name or a place in his mind besides ‘Potential threat and complication’.

It’s not that the man shouldn’t get a place in the world, a name and a friend who knows him, but he can’t be the one to give that to him.

He is a weapon and weapons are just that. They don’t need the gift of friendship, the comfort of someone knowing who they are.

His life as a story suits him right now, the idea of being a terror that the intelligence agencies and the media spread isn’t exactly what he wants, but he can work with it.. 

They haven’t caught him yet after all. When they do, if they do, he’ll worry about what he's going to become.

For now, he still has work, still has bones to break and songs to sing.

~

The numbers of agents dwindle and he finds himself traveling more than actively finding anything. The creeping sense of loss, of lack of purpose, is starting to rise up in his head and he’s starting to fear what happens when he’s done.

What will become of the weapon when the war is over?

He sleeps rarely but when he does, he dreams of darkness and cold, of the water and what it would be like to live at the bottom of the ocean.

~

He tells himself he will never find all of them, that he will always have someone to hunt, to hurt and with that, a purpose.

But the numbers keep getting smaller and he keeps singing and the man keeps following.

And he knows how this is going to end.

If not the story, than this chapter.

It's going to be in water and in blood and when he thinks about that, it brings him comfort.

~

They find him because he wants to be found, because he’s left a trail of blood and bodies, because he’s ready to see him, at least for a moment

The beach is dark, the water black and the moon high in the sky. It’s possibly unnerving to some but all he sees is a means of escape, a sure fire way to leave it all behind, even if he doesn't understand how it works.

The man comes alone and unarmed. It’s almost funny, in a sick sad sort of way, to see the trust in his expression when they lock eyes. He really believes that there’s safety on this beach, that this can end well..

“Bucky,” he breathes, staring at the blood on his hands, on his face. He’s covered in it and makes the sand cling to him when the wind picks up

But he knows, as soon as the name hits his hears, that he won’t be running, won’t be taking to the water and leaving the land and all it's treachery behind.

Because he’s being claimed whether the other knows it or not. He’s being beckoned upon by a sailor adrift in a sea of loneliness and it's his calling to respond, to lure that lost soul to him.

He steps forward, hair in his eyes and offers out a bloodied hand in greeting.

“Steve.”


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks pass in a haze, a blur of names, faces and the idea that he's supposed to be "safe". 

They keep proposing this idea that he's okay now, that he's safe and nothing is going to touch him. It's mostly Rogers ( _Rogers, Steve. Steve Rogers. How does the name go this time)_ ) but Wilson does it too. 

The idea makes him bark out a laugh every time and grin with too many teeth. Every time he does, someone looks disappointed..

(Romanova, who pops in every now and then, doesn't try and feed him lines about safety. She knows full well that lies are still lies when they fall from familiar mouths).

In the end, they have to face the fact that he doesn't understand what the word really means, that such a concept was wiped from his mind too long ago and far too often for him to grasp the concept..

~

He doesn't sing. Occasionally he hums, mostly to himself, mostly when he's a certain kind of restless. It's alone, at night, where the world can't hear him. 

He can't puzzle out the reason why noise equates to violence ( _lies_ ), at least when he makes it, but he knows it's true and refuses to bring it down on anyone else.

_(Sometimes he wishes he still had something to fight against. A reason to let his voice ring out.)_

~

A 'certain kind of restless' happens more and more.

~

There’s this man, a ghost in his head, a best friend who he kept losing and finding and losing again. Steve Rogers clings to him like a drowning man. They kept coming back to one another, even though he doesn't understand why. He's not a prize, a catch worth searching for. 

Yet he searched. He tore up the world trying to find him and now that he has, he can't stop looking at him like he's a treasure.

It makes him feel sick.

He calls him Bucky like it means something, like it's a name he can claim to be his own.

But he's not Bucky, he doesn't know who Bucky is, what he was like.

Bucky fell, the Solder froze and what's left is the remains of the two. 

~

He sits on the apartment roof at night, watching the world, the stars, the city hum underneath him. 

He watches and waits for something to happen. 

Everything is too far from water and he knows that he's not meant to be here. Yet, the place he is meant to be is so far beyond his realm of comprehension that it's not even worth thinking about.

Maybe he stays because Rogers keeps looking at him with adoring eyes. Maybe he stays because he has nowhere else to go.

It's probably better this way, probably better to live on the land than drown on the sea.

But he wonders if he would drown. If he wouldn't feel something open up within him that the water pass through his body with ease. He wonders if drowning was ever an option at all.

~

He dreams of a boy in a church chorus. He dreams of a boy singing in the street.

He dreams of blood on his hands. He dreams of bodies at his feet.

He dreams of water.

~

Sometimes he considers packing the few things that they thrust upon him and vanishing. Walking away from all of this and letting his feet carry him until he finds the nearest beach or lake or body of water big enough to hold him.

He thinks about it, then he stops.

Because there's nothing waiting for him in the ocean tide but there's clearly something that might be worth staying for.

( _Might be. Maybe. If he tries hard enough._ )

He thinks he might be able to lie enough to be what Steve ( _It' that kind of stupid optimistic day, a Steve day rather than a Rogers day_ ) wants him to be.

Of course he's still trying to figure out what the hell that is, still trying to trace the lines on the map of memories to learn about the boy who'd been here so long ago, living in a body he wouldn't recognize if he saw it now.

Maybe he could do it, maybe he could play at personalities and be Bucky Barnes for a while.

~

Or maybe not.

~

His ears are ringing with the sound of shattered glass, the copper tang of blood is in the air. How he ended up on the floor is beyond him but he knows that he was the one to press his hand into the glass. There was no one to blame but himself for that.

Although he's not certain, he is pretty sure his other option was to scream. ( _Sing? Maybe sing. Singing and screaming can sound the same with the right person_ ).

Maybe he couldn't do this. Maybe he couldn't do anything. Maybe all he's worth is the blood he can spill.

He grinds the glass further into his palm.

( _Bleed a little, give it up. Bleed a little, show them what what you're worth. Blood on the ground, blood in the air. Sing! Sing!_ )

A low hum escapes him, soft and coaxing. Before too long, it spills into a song he doesn't know but the words still come clear as day.

Someone's on the ground next to him, someone is lying in the glass.

And he lifts his hand, stares down at the wounds, the red dripping from the heel of his palm, stares at the body ( _Person?_ ) before him.

Maybe he can't do this.

Rogers looks at him from the floor with glazed eyes, the kind of eyes that stared at him so often before he delivered blow after blow. They weren’t kind eyes, they were vacant and malleable. 

They weren’t supposed to look that way..

In a far off part of his mind, he wonders what the man has done to deserve him singing.


	4. Chapter 4

After they both come to, after he pulls himself off the floor and the man who's keeping him ( _he can't give him a name, he can't. He wants to but fuck if he gets to do things like use names after what he's done_ ) cleans them both up, he decides it's better to stay silent.  
He wants to run, to hit the street as soon as he is able but the man makes him promise not to go. It's the closest thing to an order he's been given and a part of him still years for orders, for something to follow beyond his own shattered thoughts.

"It was an accident," the man says as he picks glass out of his palm with a set of tweezers. "It was an accident and it's okay now. We're okay."

There's a knot at the pit of his stomach saying otherwise. It's telling him that he fucked up, he did badly, he went against everything good that was being thrust upon him and made it bleed.

He's good at that though. He can figure out how to make anything bleed if he tries hard enough.

Bile is starting to rise in his throat and he's getting to his feet, not entirely realizing that the other wasn't finished cleaning him up.

"Bucky--"

He leaves the room, heads for the bathroom and proceeds to vomit out everything he had inside him.

He fucked up, he fucked up, he fucked up.

~

After that he doesn't speak, even when he's alone.

He's sick, a dog that should be put down. Something rabid and dangerous and he full well knows it. He shouldn't be here and if he could, he would do it himself.

There's a sick survival instinct that's implanted deep within him though, he knows he couldn't, despite how much he wants it.

He runs his left hand over his right, breathing in slowly and thinking of how easily he could crush his own wrist. How he could slowly break himself down until the only functioning part of him would be the metal.

If he can't kill himself, he can maybe make himself obsolete. Make himself so useless for what his original purpose was, that he could maybe do something else..

There's a knock at the door.

He makes a noise loud enough to be heard and the act makes him feel sick again. He's used to the nauseated feeling in his belly at this point. It's just as much a part of living as breathing at this point. 

( _He deserves it, he deserves every bit of it._ )

The door opens and the man walks in, looking tired and concerned.

"Hey," he says, voice gentle as he pulls out a chair from the corner and sits down. Not close enough to make him feel trapped, he never sits that close, but enough that his presence is hard to ignore.

He nods his head, unsure of what else to do. They both know he's nots peaking but the other clearly has something on his mind, so maybe he's not even expected to.

So he doesn't say anything, just sits there, eyes half closed and breathing slowly. They stay like that for a while and he wonders if he just wanted to be near him or something. He doesn't know and doesn’t ever think he’ll completely understand anything that’s going on between the two of them..

Finally, unsure of what to do, he opens his mouth, words creeping out from between his tongue and teeth like tired children crawling towards a place to sleep.

"I don't know why you're here."

"I know." He smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. "I know you don't, Buck. I'm hoping you will one day though."

"You're investing a lot in a dead man."

"I invested in worse."

He doesn't know what to say after that but the creeping sense of relief is trying to trick him. It wants to make him feel like everything is going to be okay, that they'll get through this, whatever it is, and they'll become people who know and enjoy each other, rather than awkward strangers scraping together the charred remains of a friendship.

He knows it's not true, knows he can't do it. Maybe James Buchanan Barnes could have done it but he's long dead and the flesh that remains is hardly good enough to get what the spirit of the man could have achieved.

~

Existing after that is strange. It's hazy and disjointed. He remembers being on the couch and then the next thing he knows, he's in the water. Curled up in the bathtub that's too small to be comfortable in but not caring because the water was spraying him.

Only in the water do thing make sense. It's only when he's dripping wet that he can really piece together what's going on around him. He doesn't know what's going on around him. He doesn't know why but he remembers how being in the river felt. He remembers how good it was and he wants to go back.

But he doesn't get to go back, he hasn't earned it yet.

But time keeps passing and things keep going. He doesn't sing and the itch in his throat is getting worse but the water helps and he finds himself taking longer and longer baths, not emerging until Steve (things work their way back to Steve. Somehow. He's still not sure how.) is knocking at the door to make sure he's okay.

Sometimes he considers telling Steve about the water, trying to find the words and explain how makes things better, but he can't quite manage it. The words tangle between his vocal chords and he's left standing there, silent and uncertain until he winds up simply walking away and pretending nothing happened.

He wonders if he should just do that with everything, close his eyes and pretend it didn't happen.

Maybe that would be better than trying to piece together everything. Maybe he could just ignore it all and pretend he's a creature that never hurt, never killed, never lost who he was.

Maybe.


	5. Chapter 5

Even though he knows the water helps, it doesn’t help enough.

His lips are chapped and his hands chalky and dry. He doesn't want to be this way, doesn't want to have the cracked, thirsty look about him like he does all the time now, but he can't help it.

His body is craving something and no matter how much time he spends in the bathroom soaking in the tub and avoiding Steve, it becomes evident that it's not enough.

( _Will it ever be enough? Will anything but the open water be good enough? Does he even deserve it if it is?_ )

Everything is wrong in his head, his body is always tense, his hands quick to draw a weapon or curl into a fist. He's easily worked up, his body is aching for a fight, for something he can't give it, for anything but what he has right now and he doesn't know what he can do to make it stop.

Steve is watching him the entire time, watching him slowly coming apart, skin cracking like a stupid, goddamn metaphor for the state of his frazzled and fractured head..

It makes him angry, more so than the thirst he's always feeling. Sometimes he's left wanting to scream, to throw himself at walls, to tear down everything around him. He wants to break and he wants to sing and he wants to be in the water.

But he can't ( _he won't_ ) and it's going to leave him aching and mad is not-so-subtly falling apart.

~

Steve comes close to him and he feels his heart start pounding. The idea of touch is revolting ( _who the fuck would want to touch him like this?_ ) and comforting all at once.. He wants to lean in, to reach out, to touch and and it makes hims stomach go into knots.

He holds back though, he always holds back. Even without the memory, his body knows what happens when he initiates touch.. 

But Steve seems to know, or at least maybe wants it himself, and so his hand comes to rest on his shoulder before he speaks.

"You're not okay." 

"I know."

"What do you need?"

"I don't know."

"I think you know something though."

He sighs, sucking in a breath and biting down on the inside of his cheek. Blood starts to pool inside his mouth and he hadn’t realized he bit that hard but he swallows it down, looking up at Steve.

"Can we go to the water?"

He nods, offering a smile. "Yeah, of course."

~

The next clear memory he has is his body being graced by the feeling of water and falling forward to greet it with everything he can offer.

( _It’s not enough, it’s never going to be enough. He’s not worth enough to warrant the water wasted on him_ )

He doesn't notice that Steve isn't with him, or that he's still wearing the clothes he rode in.. Nothing matters but the water, he lets himself be pulled under, lets the waves take him and nourish him in a way he had not realized he needed.

Up and down, under and out. He lets the water dictate where he goes, letting it carry him out further than he should. It doesn't matter, he knows he can make it back if ( _when, it has to be when_ ) he has to.

Things come back to him in the water though. Things that have been forced into the recesses of his mind, things like , things like Brooklyn, things like skinny boys playing games in the street, his mother watching them, Steve getting sick, him working whatever jobs he can to make the money to pay for rent and medical care.

It's in flickers and flashes, more like a movie than actual memories, but it’s there all the same. 

He can see it in his head, see things that he knew were waiting for him, and he smiles The memories aren’t all happy, but they’re real, they’re _his_..

But things don't stay the way they should, he's not allowed to stay in in the streets of Brooklyn, or watch those boys play. There's a war on. There's pain, there’s fighting and gunpowder. There are needles, there’s something shoved hard into his mouth and hell pumping through his veins. 

There's the muzzle around his face, whispers in his head. There's thirst that leaves him on his knees.

There’s more pain than he remembers his body being capable of handling..

( _So much pain, everything hurts, everything is cracking. The tank had water, he's begging for the tank again, for the water. God, please let him just have the water._ )

He's coughing, clawing at his face and the sides of his head, trying to get things to stop. A part of him registers that he's closer to the shore but it's not loud enough to pull him from the rioting in his head. 

There are arms around him, pulling him out and he can't decide if he wants to scream and dive back in, or never get near the open water again.

Steve is there and touching him, saying his name, trying to get him to focus, to hear his voice and say something in response.

But things don't snap back into place the way he wants them too. There's the echo of collars around his neck, of welts on his back, of electricity coursing through him. There are other aches too, so many hauntings that he can't keep track.

He breathes in, tries to concentrate on Steve's voice.

"Bucky," Steve says. "Bucky, you're okay. You're safe, I promise, you're safe. I’ve got you now. You're okay."

There's a nod, and a noise comes out of his throat like it was trying to be words but forgot how on the way out of his mouth.

"You with me?" Steve asks, his hand against Bucky's cheek. "Come on, Buck. You can do it, just stay with me." 

"Yeah," he finally manages, sputtering the word out. "Yeah, I'm....Fuck, I don't know. Fuck."

Steve breathes a sigh but the tension doesn't leave his body. "Good," he says. "That's good. Focus on me, okay? Just focus on me."

"Okay," he says, nodding again. "I--...I can try.."


	6. Chapter 6

They make it back to the apartment somehow. He doesn't remember and he doesn't care to. There's been too much of memories and he doesn't know what to do with any of the information he’s had shoved down his throat and through his body.

it's all a tangle of images, of ideas more than feelings, of stories that he feels like he's been told over and over again.

He makes it inside and falls onto the couch, tired in a bone deep way that doesn't let him care that he's not in a bed or that his clothes are wet. None of it matters and he's too tired to pretend anything else.

He falls asleep there, tired and in pain and with a small part of him aching once again, for the water.

~

Waking up is a slow process. First he cracks one eye open, looks around the room and only then opens the other. Moving his right arm out from under the blanket that had been draped over him, he stretches, hearing bones crack in his shoulder and letting a yawn spill from his lips.

He's sore as hell, tired still and only working with half-formed memories of what happened at the beach.

With no idea where Steve is yet, his head is still too fogged up to really concentrate, he rises while making no noise whatsoever. If Steve was asleep, he doesn’t want to disturb him.

If he’s awake though, he's not sure what he’s going to do. His brain feels conflicted and contorted, bent in ways it's not meant to be and Steve doesn't need to see that, even if it might be unavoidable at this point.

He gets to the kitchen, manages to make coffee without getting water on himself and is waiting for the machine to finish before Steve appears.

His expression is mostly tired with a hint of concern. He looks like he'd been up for a while and only managed to catch a couple hours of sleep. The look didn't suit him. 

"Hi," he mutters, eyes not meeting Steve's. He's still trying to piece together what took place at the shore but he knows it was less than good. Memories of memories pull at him, trying to resurface or maybe just pull him down into their tide. It gets hard to breathe, hard to think, but the ghosts of waves lap at his feet and he has to shove it all down in an attempt to stay in the present.

Steve smiles but even that just looks completely exhausted. "How're you doing?" 

It's such an easy question but they both know the answer is not as simple.

"Getting by," he offers in an attempt to ease Steve's mind a little. "Woke up not too long ago, so."

"Yeah." 

It's awkward after that, the two of them standing there while the coffee brews and neither of them are sure what to say. He wants to ask what happened, make sure he has the facts straight and Steve seems just like he wants to start the day over again. Neither of them are particularly thrilled at the current state of things.

"You slept for a while," Steve tells him when the coffee’s done. "Do you at least feel better?"

Instead of answering, he poses a question in return. "How long did I sleep?"

"It's Thursday."

So, almost two days. It doesn't exactly surprise him. His body still feels wrecked, though, like he could just go back to sleep but he's resisting that urge. It seems like he should be awake, at least for a little while, to try and sort everything out.

Not that he thinks he's going to sort out the great shitshow that is his mind right now but it's worth a try, right?

( _No, no it's not._ )

They have coffee in uncertain silence. Neither of them are sure what to say at this point and while he’s pretty sure something needs to happen, he's at a loss as to what that actually is. 

Finally, Steve speaks. "Things got kind of fucked up for you out there, didn't they?"

"I don't remember a time when things weren't fucked up for me." Which is not entirely true but not entirely a lie either. The images of Brooklyn so long ago still rise up in his mind but they don’t feel real to him.

Steve, for a brief moment, looks almost hurt but it's gone as soon as it was there. "Was it the water? I thought you....I don't know. I thought the water would be good for you."

"I did too."

 

“YOu always liked water when we were kids.”

He doesn’t say anything, just thinks about how wrong they both had been to assume the water was a good thing. At the same time though, he knew he would go back to it if given the chance. 

"Maybe it was a fluke,” he finally says after a long moment of silence. “It felt so good at first, like I was coming home. It felt right."

Steve shrugs, clearly out of his element. "If you wanna try it again, Buck..."

He shakes his head. "No."

"We don't have to right now, I just--"

"I'm being stupid. It's going to happen again. It's going to keep happening. I know that. I can feel it. The water...It's got something in it, I don’t know what. But it's going to happen again."

Steve only nods, seeming to trust him to know what's best. This is hilarious but he doesn't actually say that out loud.

"I'm really tired of being thirsty," he says instead, voice quiet. "I'm really, really fucking tired of it."0

"Yeah, I know you are."

They stand like that for a while, listening to the sounds outside of the apartment. He eventually sighs, moving away from the counter and heading towards the couch again. 

"I don't know what's happening,." He admits, dropping down on the cushion and letting his hand rake through his hair. "I don't know. I don't know anything. I don't know what's supposed to be happening here. I don't know what I'm doing."

Steve trails after him, hands shoved into his pockets. "I know that. We'll figure it out though. You're here and that's a start. Everything else can be sorted out later."

He tries not to laugh because he knows it would just come out bitter and angry. Of course he's being a fucking optimist. 

Instead of laughing, he just shrugs, sucking in a breath and letting his eyes fall shut. Behind his lids, he can still see cracks of things he once knew, fleeting images of times gone by, both good and bad. It's like they're trying to come through, to tear that crack into a gaping hole and overwhelm him all over again but they just don't have the strength now that the water isn't so close.

He's not sure if he's grateful for the distance or mourning it.

Carefully, like he might startle him or set him off, Steve rests a hand against' his shoulder. He's so careful, always so careful and it doesn't piss him off exactly but it's frustrating as fuck sometimes. He just wants to tell him to stop, to take of the kid gloves because he's jagged and always will be. He's broken and sharp edges and a bear trap. 

(,I>No matter how careful anyone is, he’s going to cut them.)

 

Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and simply looks up at him..

Steve doesn't say anything only smiles a little, relief in his eyes. 

"What if this just doesn't work?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral. It's easy to eject the emotion sometimes, to fall back on mechanical motions and a dead tone. It may not be a good habit but it’s a familiar one.

"What do you mean?"

"This. Me. I might not work. This could fall to pieces. I could fuck up all over again, We could spend the rest of our lives waking up in ruins. Everything could just fucking fall apart over and over again. That's not how things are supposed to be."

 

( _But it’s how they are, how they’re going to be. There’s no denying it._ )

"No." Steve agrees. "It's not. But if it turns out that's the case and I'm not saying it will be, then we’ll keep going. We'll rebuild again and again. We'll work things out and solve the problems in front of us and if new ones come up, we'll solve them too. I'm not walking away from this, Bucky. It's not how _I_ work."

He doesn't say anything, the energy to argue just isn't there and while he could try and pretend it was, they both know he'd just cave in on himself. "Okay. Fine."

Steve smiles, small and sad but still a smile all the same. "Think you're going back to sleep?

He shakes his head. The idea of sleep sounds appealing but he knows he won't sleep quickly and the idea of laying there, tossing and turning with his own thoughts to keep him company doesn't sit well with him. "No."

"I'll make something to eat then. We could probably use it."

He shrugs again. The idea of food makes his stomach twitch and he knows he's in need of it but it feels like so much effort right now. But he's not going to fight him and just lets himself fall back into the couch. Closing his eyes, he takes in a breath, feeling his throat starting to stick as the familiar need for water rises up to greet him once again.


	7. Chapter 7

He dreams of the ocean and it hurts.

The water laps at his feet, then fills his lungs, pulling him into the dark. He's not sure how he got from the shore into the depths but it doesn't matter. It's what he wants, what he needs and he's not turning back now.

He swims deeper and deeper into the dark and it's as natural as walking, like he'd been doing this all his life. Like nothing had ever kept him from the water and he was meant to be here and nowhere else.

He opens his mouth and melodies mix into the water, blending in until the whole sea is nothing but music. He knows there are ships above him, knows that there are sailors diving into the waves to get at his song but he can't bring himself to stop and he doesn't want to.

~

He wakes gasping quietly. It feels like that how he's always waking up these days, gasping for water instead of air. It's exhausting as hell and he wonders if the thirst ever ends, if he's doomed to be this way for the rest of his life.

( _However long that may be._ )

He sits up, hair falling into his eyes and obscuring his vision for a moment before the noise hits his ears. 

Speaking from another room, Pauses. A phone call of some kind.

It's Steve on the phone with someone, he can't be sure who. A part of him says not to listen, that he has no right to hear what the man is saying. If he's having the conversation now, when he assumed he would be asleep, it's obviously something he doesn't want him to hear.

"I don't know what's going on anymore."

He bites back a laugh because neither does he. He has no fucking idea and can't imagine what it is at this point. Whatever it may be, it's bone deep inside him and there's no cutting it out, no drowning it until it's gone.

"It's the water. Something about it does things to him. I can't even begin to say if it's good or bad at this point. I thought it was good but at the beach, everything went haywire He looked fine at first and then..."

He winces. He knows it was fucked up out there, that he'd fallen deep into his own head for whatever reason. He can't say it was entirely the water's fault but it sure as shit didn't help. The water had had been an aid, if not the exact reason for the memories flooding his mind.

"Yeah, something like that. I don't know. And well, there's something I didn't tell you."

Steve proceeds to go into the incident with the glass.. It was like a spell, he says, like a heavy blanket coming over him and muffling his own thoughts and desires, leaving him unsure of what he was doing. It was like he'd lost any will of his own, like there was nothing there in his mind ot tell him to stop..

The nausea that rises up in his throat isn’t surprising but still horrible all the same.

The rest of the phone call goes unheard, as the rushing of waves fills his head and the sickness in his belly threatens to spill over. He lays his head on the couch again and tries to focus on bringing himself back down from the anxiety and the illness. However,it's hard to focus on anything with the parched feeling in his mouth and the itch in his throat.

God, he doesn't need to be here.

He doesn't need to be anywhere. He should be put down, shot like a dog that's gone bad. He's not safe, not someone who deserves the freedom he somehow seems to have acquired. He can't be trusted and that along with what he can do means he's nothing but trouble.

And yet even as he's thinking all this when Steve walks back into the room, he's smiling when he sees that he’s awake. Not that it lasts long, the anxiety is obvious and it’s too late to try and hide it.

"Bucky," he says, his voice gentle as he crouches next to the couch. "Bucky, hey. You okay there?"

He opens his eyes, lifts his head and watches the other, studying him for a long moment. He wants to say he can't do this, wants to tell him he shouldn't be here and he can just run into the ocean, stay far away from any human alive and call it done. 

Instead he just nods, raising one hand up in an awkward greeting.

Steve smiles and it's a tight, sad expression despite his best efforts. "Sorry I didn't wake you. I know you probably didn't need the sleep but I figured..." He makes a vague gesture with one hand. "I don't know."

He nods, pushing himself upright. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm up now, I'm awake."

"Yeah."

They stare at each other, both uncertain and awkward waiting for a cue from the other for what to do next.

"I uh, talked to Natasha." Steve offers, his voice almost probing. "She says she wouldn't mind coming by to check on you. See how you're doing."

he shrugs, unsure how he feels about the idea and unsure if he's even allowed to have an opinion on the matter. She is someone he doesn't understand, she pings him as familiar and yet she unnerves him too. 

Sometimes, when he thinks of her, he sees her in the water, a body floating in a river rather than something alive. He's not sure why.

"Do you mind?" Steve's trying to pull a real answer out of him but all he gives is another shrug. He's not what he thinks of seeing her again, whether it will be good or bad. Maybe somehow she'll have an answer for him, she'll be able to see through the cracks and broken glass in his brain to what thither hell is really going on.

( _Or maybe he's being a hopeful idiot. That's always an option too._ )

"She can come, i don't care." He finally offers. "It's not as if she doesn't know what she's getting into now."

Rogers winces. "Sorry."

He barks out a laugh. "It's fine, she deserves to know if she's going to be around me. I'm a fucking risk, people should know what they're walking into."

"You're not--"

"Yes, I am."

Steve backs off, rubbing a hand across his face before taking a breath. "Whatever this is, whatever you've got going on, we'll work it out."

He doesn't say anything, instead letting the words hang in the air between them. Whether it's true or not doesn't feel like it even matters. The fact is, he's fucked up enough to have this much to work out in the first place. It shouldn't be the case but it is and he's a goddamn burden on everyone.

Steve gets to his feet, brushing away invisible dirt on his knees. "Come on, I promised you breakfast. You're probably starving."

He isn't but he doesn't say anything.

He also doesn't say that all of them are idiots for dealing with him because that seems like it won't be worth the breath it takes. Everyone already know and yet they're still willing to be around him.

Who knows how this is going to end after all the chips have fallen. Who knows if he's the one who's wrong. It doesn't matter because Steve seems to be in it for the long haul and even though he's not sure about Romanova, he gets the feeling that she's probably as stubborn as either of them, if not more.

They're all going to ride this ship into hell and there's nothing he can do to stop it.


	8. Chapter 8

The passage of time is tricky. He knows it happens, can count the seconds going by next to the beats of his heart but he doesn’t register days going by. Time blurs and leaves him feeling disassociated and untethered.

Steve tells him she’s coming, that she’ll be there tomorrow, in a few hours, she’s on her way. It doesn’t register though. It never clicks until he hears her knock on the door and watches her walk in from his spot on the couch.

And then there she is, a woman who he only somewhat recalls trying to kill and at the same time, she reeks of familiarity. Her movements remind him of something, her smell pings his brain in a way he only associates with the water.

She feels like him, like she belongs to the waves and this whole thing where she’s on land just feels like a game she’s playing until she’s bored.

“Hello, James.” She smiles at him and he knows she feels it too, feels the strange tie that sits between them and the water. It leaves him unnerved, his muscles twitching and his mouth going dry.

Instead of a verbal greeting he nods once, averting his eyes from her gaze and trying to remember how it is he functions around other people.

( _Except that’s wrong. She’s not other people. She’s not even Steve. She’s something all-together different._ )

Steve looks between them, feeling the tension in the room but clearly having no idea what to do about it. He shifts from foot to foot for a moment, then watches Romanova for a beat. “Do you want a drink?”

Steve’s attempt at hospitality is almost funny if it wasn’t for the fact that while he’s trying to make everyone feel comfortable, he’s on the verse of a panic attack.

“Water,” she says. “Maybe bring him a cup too.”

Steve looks at him and he nods, suddenly feeling even more dehydrated than normal.

After everyone has settled and both he and Romanova have downed two cups of water, she straightens, her hands in her lap. “So,” she starts. “You two are pretty clueless, aren’t you?”

Both of them blink, then Steve shrugs while he only takes in a breath. 

“That might be an understatement.” Steve says, laughing though it’s more self deprecating than anything else. 

He chokes out a laugh, surprising himself as well as Steve. “I’m so fucking beyond clueless, it isn’t even funny.”

She smiles at them and it’s not unkind but there’s no joy in it. In fact, it’s more of a pitying thing than anything else. “Oh boys,” she starts. “You’re both kind of ridiculous.”

Steve looks at her like he’s going to say something but holds his tongue. He just watches, unsure of what is going to happen, what she has to say or where they’re going to end up after all this is over. If it’s with answers though, he hardly gives a damn.

“You feel like you’re lost at sea,” she says. “Actually no, if you were lost at sea, you’d be happier. You feel like you’re in a desert. No water anywhere, nothing to refresh you or cool you down. You feel like you’re choking constantly. You feel like you’re in a drought.”

He doesn’t respond, just stares at her. There’s nothing to say. She knows she’s right and even if he wanted to deny it, there’s be no point because of that.

“You belong to the sea, James.” She smiles again but this time it’s softer. “You’re not meant for land. You’re supposed to be in the ocean, singing to sailors and making them fall into the waves. You were never supposed to be anywhere near here.”

He frowns. It’s not anything he didn’t know in his gut, not exactly, but he doesn’t know _why_.

“What does that even mean?” Steve speaks up, making him realize it isn’t just the two of them in the room. 

“You’ve never heard of sirens, have you?”

Steve blinks, then shakes his head. “I think I’ve heard of them, that’s all. What’re you trying to say, Natasha?”

“He’s fae, Steve.” She looks straight at him then. “You know it, don’t you? You know you’re not human.”

He swallows hard, feeling the lump in his throat get bigger and more choking. 

 

( _She’s right, she’s right. Oh god, she’s so rightGod, that sounds stupid but it’s all he has in him._ )

“I’m not expecting you to. You’ve been lied to for longer than you think. It’s going to take time to learn the truth.”

Steve looks between them, watching for a long moment before he asks a question that hadn’t even occurred to Bucky.

“How do you know?”

She laughs and It sounds almost sweet. “You didn’t call me to learn about who I am.”

“Natasha—”

“I’m not denying you, Steve. Just hold on.” She moves her hands for a moment and he sees them, the strands of light holding her in place. She unravels them,her skin becoming almost translucent as she does so, her ears more pointed and her hair redder than before. She’s her but sharper and somehow faded at the same time. She’s the ghost of a knife that can still somehow make you bleed.

Steve doesn't’ seem to see the unveiling, not entirely. Rather, he’s watching her hands for a moment, then blinking, confused and surprised at what stands before him.

“How did you—”

“Glamour.” She states. “A trick to hide us from the humans. He has it too, a constant guise to keep him safe. He learned it as a kid and never took it off. Or almost never, I suspect.”

“HYDRA had it’s ways of breaking you down until you were raw. They took down your glamour when it suited them. You probably don’t remember but I’ve seen the places they’ve kept you. There’s too much iron for you not to have caved in every so often.”

“So,” Steve says, his voice sounding like he’s testing the words. “What you’re’ telling us is that Bucky is a fairy, you are too and HYDRA knew and used this to their advantage?”

She nods. “That about sums it up, yeah.”

Steve looks at him, smiling in an almost bitter way. “…I feel like it’s a shame neither of us can get drunk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me elsewhere:  
> [My DW](http://rootsofthestories.dreamwidth.org) (which I use regularly)  
> [My Tumblr](http://analtarofstars.tumblr.com/) (which I am very rarely on)  
> [My Twitter](http://twitter.com/harvestgraces) (which I am on at random)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [who's gonna save a little warmth for me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233270) by [apatternedfever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apatternedfever/pseuds/apatternedfever)




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